


fingers crossed

by pixiepuff (colourmecrunchy)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Emotions, Intense, M/M, how do you tag, instant connection between two strangers, journalist and stranger proceed to do things, journalist has beer, journalist meets a stranger, kinda sorta quirke AU merthur edition, quirke au, stranger is awesome, strangers to mates to lovers, wonderful!arthur because that's how i like him best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourmecrunchy/pseuds/pixiepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin, a jaded journalist who aimlessly awaits a story interesting enough to get him out of grey, forlorn Dublin, spends his evening as per usual: local pub, beer, and a derisive thought or two. </p>
<p>And then Arthur shows up.</p>
<p> <em>He takes a sip just as the entrance door opens and closes with a whoosh, and then, well. The sight of the company improves by what a standard measuring system calls a fuckton, and Merlin smirks into his glass.</em></p>
<p> <em>Tall, golden, slightly stiff, with a hint of concealed sweetness inside. And he's not even describing his drink.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	fingers crossed

**Author's Note:**

> I know Colin's character is called Jimmy in Quirke, but as far as I know, he doesn't have a male romantic interest portrayed in a shape of one Bradley James, so I'm making this a Merthur Quirke AU instead.  
> I feel like I've just mixed together a dish of egg fried rice and gummy bears and have no fucking clue how you even eat this thing. (With caution, and not without blowing on it first, I presume.) If they appear slightly OOC at times, yes, this is deliberate. I'm fed up with Arthur being stigmatized as this dimwitted, selfish bloke, so I'm substituting my sunshine Arthur instead. x

The local pub was your average joint of a perfect mix to make it a claustrophobically empty space. It stank of stale beer and peanuts of dodgy origin, of too many perfumes mixing in the air, belonging to people who have long forsaken the place. It was cold, the central heating something of a luxury the owner didn't really intend on lavishing upon the perpetually dissatisfied customers anyway.

It was furnished with dark, old wood, damp in places either from the spilled drink or tears, hinting at all the secrets it was privy to on endless nights of people coming and going and putting their whole life on display sometime in the middle. It gave the place a certain charm, Merlin mused sullenly.

He loved coming here, which, he thought, tells you a lot about the likes of him.

There's something indescribably profound in a sense of belonging to a seamlessly worthless place. No expectations, no questions, no rules. Nobody cares if the couple in the back booth is crossing all boundaries of PDA, or if the bloke with a mohawk is passing on something that screams illegal substances under the table. Also, nobody cares if a mid-twenties bloke with a lithe figure and messy black hair is an aspiring journalist who comes to the bar with Utopian-like hopes he'll find material for the story that will give him his break-through.

They all know they're not worthy of an article piece anyway.

Until one evening someone is.

 

Merlin is leaning on his palm, something digging in his elbow like an annoying, persisting bit of underwear that wedges between your butt cheeks and drives you insane all the bus ride home, with an old lady sitting just next to you so you can't bloody do anything about it. Or, that's maybe pushing it a bit as far as similes go. He'll rather store this particular comparison for a thought that won't leave his head, nagging at him until he talks to himself in the mirror like a lunatic, and admit that the thing jabbing at his elbow is just a beer coaster of unfortunate shape, but Merlin's rather lazy to move it.

He's been here for hours, not wanting to return to his dingy, shabby place that smells only marginally better than the pub, and has the same dejected air of frustration and pent up _I don't give a fuck_ \- ness. Beer's good, though.

The company, on the other hand, isn't much at all. The bartender has been swiping the same old rag over the same set of glasses for the past half an hour, wearing them thin but not much cleaner, and there's little entertainment as far as other living and breathing souls go. Merlin considers a change of career path at least twice a week, but then remembers he's shite at anything but writing – which is only arguably good, and only on odd days and _only_ if it's raining, which is at least _one_ thing that goes according to plan in Dublin – so he orders another glass and pops open another button on his plaid shirt.

He's been buzzing with an odd sort of energy tonight. He's restless, completely unlike the subdued version of himself on the usual nights at this place, and he doesn't quite know what to do with it. He doesn't want to brush it away, or worse, _drink_ it away because the effect it has on him is rather peculiar, and he's afraid he'll never be able to reach it again if he misplaces it. He licks his lips, wanting to snap into action, wanting to move, and go and make and do, he wants to take initiative over _something_ that surpasses giving the order of another glass or making himself go home and admit another night of defeat.

 

He takes a sip just as the entrance door opens and closes with a whoosh, and then, well. The sight of the company improves by what a standard measuring system calls _a_ _fuckton_ , and Merlin smirks into his glass.

Tall, golden, slightly stiff, with a hint of concealed sweetness inside. And he's not even describing his drink.

He must be having one hell of a pokerface though, because the bloke seems to deem him harmless and plops down two bar stools away with a nod in his general direction.

»Hi,« Merlin grins at him, chin still propped up on his hand, the jabs in the elbow completely forgotten.  »I'd stick to the beer.«

»What?«

His bar-stool-neighbour whom Merlin wanted to call a lot more suggestive things but was decidedly not drunk enough for it, gave him a slightly confused look, underlined with intrigue. For a moment Merlin thought he should advise him to go find another pub, but he felt bereft of the company just by thinking of it.

»Beer's nice here.«

An amiable nod was the response. »Is that what you come here for?«

»What, to get boozed up? Not really. It is a nice addition, though.«

The bloke shifted in his seat, seemingly getting more comfortable as he showed the waiter he wants one of whatever Merlin is having. All without words.

Merlin was impressed.

»Addition to what?«

Merlin shrugged. »To wait for people like you.«

Whatever his nerves were doing before, they now roared happily at the admission. Yes, this felt good, the energy bubbling inside and sloshing over the tip, reaching out and wanting to prod and get to know and _learn_.

»Err, not that kind of a chap, sorry.«

When he didn't move away to sit somewhere else, though, Merlin breathed out a laugh.

»Relax, Jesus. I'm not after your virtue.«   _I think._

»Then what?«

Merlin spread his arms, and waved in the general direction that somehow included the whole pub.

»Have a look around. It's _boring_ here.«

»So you do come here for the beer.«

»I come here for the _material_.«

»I'm _still_ not convinced you're not Jack the Ripper reincarnated.«

Merlin faked a grimace. »Was it something I said?«

The bloke, who in the meantime finally got his own glass of beer, snorted, and then smirked down at his drink as he mumbled something.

»What was that?«

»I said _, you are something_.«

Merlin's own little system of electricity gave a jolt and a purr.  » _No_ , but _you_ are. That's what I meant with material.«

»Arthur.«

»What?«

»I'm Arthur.«

Merlin took the sound, the honeyed, liquid warmth of posh accent that screamed _not from here_ , and silently rolled the name around his mouth. It was the type of name one would gladly utter in a less dignified way, in a compromising position of hurried limbs and a severe lack of clothes. He nodded.

»I gather material for the stories. I write, that's what I do, and lately there was a brutal shortcoming of anything worthy to actually write about.«

»And you think I'm any good for a story?«

»Obviously.«

Merlin was sure in that _definitely not sure_ sort of way, that he was actually right about this. Arthur seemed so different to everyone else who sauntered to this joint on even semi-regular basis, and Merlin needed to know, it was imperative for him to know, but it was also really important not to fuck this up because he felt a bit out of depth here with this sudden surge of confidence. He always wanted, but  rarely took – now, with Arthur sitting three feet away, looking at him as if he's not quite sure if Merlin is for real or is pulling his leg but leaning towards the leg-pulling, _now_ Merlin wanted to do something.

Something that didn't include backing down.

»Why?«

»Because you're here. You don't belong here.«

Arthur crossed the arms over his chest, pouting and thus completely proving Merlin's point.

»Not good enough for your little smelly pub?«

» _Too_ good, actually.«

»What.«

»You're neat. And sweet. And I'm not talking just about your scent. You look put together, and determined, someone who doesn't belong in this place, which is, for all intentions and purposes a purgatory and a passing stage for the rest of us shitheads who still need to be approved to get going. It's a tiny _lost and found_ area, and you, Arthur, don't look lost.«

Merlin realized he was leaning forward with an eyebrow painfully arched, almost as in deferrence, while Arthur looked on, cocking his head to the side.

»Okay maybe you're not lying.«

»About?«

»About being a writer.«

»But?«

»But what if I _am_ lost.«

Merlin paused to really look at the guy. Again. Not that he needed to, he felt that the image was burnt into his retinas for good, the way the leather jacket hugged Arthur's shoulders or how his jeans hugged his ass as if they were tailor-made just for him – he didn't need a reminder of that, no, but he certainly wasn't wronged here to take another look. Once you got past the _whole you're unnaturally beautiful and therefore a really, really bad thing waiting to happen_ , there was a hint of scattered-ness, of non-belonging, the nomadic and wandering quality to the general vibe of the man.

»You're not lost.«

»I haven't been in one place for long, how's that for a settled soul, mister writer?«

»Merlin.«

»Alright, how's that for a settled soul, _Merlin_?«

»I haven't met anyone who'd be less of a trespasser than you.«

»Wha-«

»You belong nowhere, and also everywhere, so you keep moving because you love all the places. I'm just trying to figure out if you coming here was just a very well-timed coincidence, or has something pulled you in this specific direction.«

Arthur leaned back, assessing him through soft, unblinking eyes.

»I can't decide what to make of you.«

Merlin, much like earlier, spread his arms as if offering himself up and trying to pretend there was absolutely nothing true about that statement, and smiled a derisive smile.

»What you see is pretty much what you get.«

Arthur grinned.

»I highly doubt that.«

»Why?«

»Because I'd never peg you for the intellectual type.«

The bark of laughter surprised Merlin – and only half for not being his own, though he was grinning something rather daft. The laughter came from the bartender, and Merlin wouldn't deem it a mocking response, but then he spotted Arthur glaring daggers at the man, who suddenly decided he had unavoidable business in the back of the pub with dusty old boxes. It made Merlin feel quite warm on the inside.

»Full of surprises, me,« he nodded at Arthur and drowned half the glass at once, knowing the whole mouth-occupation was vital in that moment before he says something that would prove Arthur's theory of the whole intelligence thing that Merlin has admittedly apparently going on.

And then he almost choked on his drink (and congratulated himself for a nice save) when Arthur suddenly abandoned his bar stool, and moved to the one right next to Merlin. _Interesting_.

»I still want to know why I'd be any good for your story.«

Merlin took a deep breath, and nodded to himself. _Why_ , indeed.

»What do you think of the world?«

»What?«

»It's not a difficult question, Arthur.«

»No, but the answer is.«

Merlin grinned. »I have all night.«

»Is this some kind of a test?«

»There's no right or wrong answer, Arthur. I just want to know what you make of it.«

»The world.«

»Yes.«

»And you couldn't narrow it down a little bit.«

»To what?«

»I don't know, the economy, the Middle East, the penguins far down south?«

»Arthur.«

»What.«

»I asked you about the proverbial everywhere because that's where you belong, remember?«

»You're a difficult man to comprehend, Merlin.«

»So I've been told.«

Arthur quirked his lips to the right, looking very much like someone who doesn't try to look amused, and naturally failing horribly because of that thing called his personality, and Merlin was pretty sure, more than ever, that he was looking at something _one of a kind_ here.

He prompted him to go on by clinking their glasses together, inclining his head. »Please?«

Arthur blinked at him, looking slightly dazed, of all things, and then shrugged. »Alright, yeah.«

He pulled close a bowl of peanuts, and much to Merlin's horror, scooped some up and promptly stuck them in his mouth.

»You didn't seriously just eat that.«

»Why?«

Another mouthful.

»Those things are honestly questionable on their best day and wretched on their worst.«

»Much like my company, then?«

Merlin grinned. He loved the one-up bickering. Nobody in these parts was ever either up for it, or actually competent enough.

»Fine, eat the nuts, but I'm still waiting for your answer.«

Arthur shrugged again, and mumbled a river of words through a couple of second helpings.

»It's – you know. It's not so bad. Not all of it, at least. You pass by a really poor neighbourhood of some outskirt town and it kills you to see you can count all the ribs on the local kids and dogs. But then you sit on a bench in a park a week on, and it's warm and the sun is shining, and of all the possible other benches and people, a stray butterfly decides it's you who they're going to share benches with, and then it's not so bad. And then you wish you had some sugar for them, because apparently butterflies like that sort of thing, right? And you realize you have none, like you had none for the underfed residents of that god-forsaken village, and you suddenly know it's a vicious circle. So you go and get some sugar-coated jelly beans, only that when you get back, your butterfly is gone.«

»You went and got sugary jelly beans.«

»Oh yes. I still have some, want one?«

Arthur didn't wait for him to reply, he shuffled around his pockets and pulled out a bag, thrusting it at Merlin.

At Merlin, who knew he was neither blinking nor breathing, and was having a minor internal battle at trying to work out which of the two was actually a bigger priority. Eventually he decided on the breathing, but Arthur was already looking at him all worried.

»You okay there, mate?«

Merlin took the offered sweets and stared, wishing he had a dictation device, because he sure as hell won't be able to copy Arthur's answers depending on his memory alone.

He croaked. »Could you repeat that?«

»Repeat what? You can have all of them, if you want, they're a bit bad for me because I just keep going.«

Merlin glanced at the now-empty peanut bowl, and smiled, a little bit charmed and a whole lot amused _.  Yeah, I can see that._

Arthur, oblivious to Merlin's inner thoughts, suddenly snatched the half-eaten jelly bean from Merlin's hand and promptly stuck it in his own mouth instead.

»Sorry, needed something sweet, the peanuts are a bit salty.«

»Told you not to eat them.«

»I don't listen to anybody, Merlin.«

Merlin had his mouth open for another come-back, but realized they were just sitting there, in a poorly-lit pub of questionable reputation, with an almost-empty bag of sweets between them, beaming at each other, and has found the situation quite perfect as it was without his mouth going off at random intervals with words he didn't mean at all.

»Tell me more about that butterfly.«

 

So Arthur did. Merlin learned that its name was Peter, not unlike the Spiderman,  that it had wings of pretty, dark red that fused with brown and something that looked surprisingly like eyes on the sides, and that it was a bit iffy about the whole sitting arrangement.

»He was.«

»Arthur, how can you possibly-«

»Look, he landed on the bench, but then moved to my bag, and I politely said, _dear sir butterfly, I don't think I'm okay with you sitting on top of my possession_ , because we've barely just met and all, you know-«

»What did Peter say then?«

»Nothing, but he moved.«

»Where to?«

»My leg.«

Merlin snorted into his glass and looked up, and saw Arthur's eyes dancing with mirth. From far too close, because the pub surely didn't shrink on itself in the past half an hour, did it?

»So you shooed him away?«

»No, why?«

»Oh, so it's not okay to touch your things, but it's clearly fine to feel you up on the first date?«

Arthur smirked. »Only if you're called Peter.«

Merlin - fueled by god knows what that resulted from drinking beer and thrumming with energy and sitting this close to Arthur, this close to this ridiculous, inexplicable man - blurted out,

»Ask me about my middle name.«

Arthur paused, and then rumbled out a chuckle, which grew into a full-bellied laughter, along with throwing his head back in delight and just give it full throttle. Merlin was left a bit breathless, sitting on the dumb, uncomfortable bar stool, wondering what they looked like to others if any of the rest of the customers actually gave a fuck, and swallowed hard. He can't write a story on personal-space-challenged butterflies who go around seducing handsome golden boys, and yet he suddenly didn't want to write about anything else.

He remained silent, and watchful, trying to capture the moment of a delighted Arthur and keeping it forever, and when Arthur came down from his laughing high, he seemed to catch up on Merlin's general vibe of _this is bigger than either of us, and please don't mock me for it_ , and sobered up as well. For a long moment they looked on, a pair of impossibly blue eyes latched on each other, until Merlin broke the silence with a whispered plea of –

»More.«

»More of what?«

»Anything.«

Arthur bit his lip, and shook his head. »Limb for limb. Your turn.«

»You don't want to hear me bitching about the world, Arthur.«

»What about not-bitching about the world, then?«

»Is that even possible?«

»Try.«

It seemed so simple. It honestly felt as if he could, suddenly, give the grey reality a second chance and try to look at it from some other, not so dim perspective. He knew it was Arthur doing it, he knew it was because this bloke next to him was practically radiating with something that felt like an odd mixture of hope and pureness and _cheer up, it's not so bad_ , and Merlin found himself at crossroads of utter absurdity. He wanted to prove to Arthur that the world indeed was fucked up and dull and had nothing to offer, but then he wanted to make the illogical decision of trying to be positive, for Arthur, because Arthur would surely appreciate it, and that was the most terrifying thought Merlin's ever felt, because. Because if you lived in a little grey bubble, nothing could get you more down, but if you suddenly swapped that bubble for a beautiful, happy one, the next fall could break you.

»I haven't seen the world.«

»Then tell me about what you do know.«

»I know about you.«

This seemed to coax an unexpected, and a really private smile out of Arthur.

»You know me.«

»Yes.«

»Tell me about me, then.«

»You're the sweetest daredevil I've ever met.«

Arthur choked on his beer, and looked at him with raised eyebrows.

»You'll disregard all the unwritten rules of social conventions about eating food that's lying around the dodgy pubs, but then you'll go and get some candy for a butterfly you'll never see again.«

»How do you know Peter didn't give me his number?«

And. There it was. The warm, insane feeling of being so taken with someone that all you can do is just grin and grin at them, while they just grin and grin back at _you_. Merlin pursed his lips, faking nonchalance.

»If you have Peter's number, then what are you doing _here_?«

Arthur's face became all crinkly with excessive mirth. »Touche.«

»So he didn't actually give you his number?«

»Nah. Said he's not into blokes.«

Merlin didn't actually say _well good thing I am_ , but he felt like his face and the rest of him screamed it instead just as well. He also couldn't decide whether he should be ashamed of the effect Arthur had on him or not.

(And to be quite truthful, he was leaning towards _not_ because it was downright exhilarating, all uneasiness aside.)

»My turn.«

»What?«

Arthur leaned in. »Only fair, don't you think?«

»But you've only known me for an hour.«

»And yet it was enough for _you_.«

»Right.«

Arthur stole the last jelly bean, and made a pretty fantastic  show of eating it before he smacked his lips with content, and found Merlin looking at him open-mouthed.  For someone who's just sucked – rather obscenely, at that - sugar from the tips of his fingers, Arthur flushed rather unexpectedly, which only made the insides of Merlin stomach dance with more vigor.

»You think you're unhappy but you're not.«

»I'm not?«

»Nope. For someone who finds so much interest in other people you can't be such a downer, not really, because the moody types are selfish, I tell you, and you're not one of them.«

»What if other people interest me because I find nothing captivating in myself?«

Arthur actually looked at him with disdain.  »Nonsense. You're plenty captivating.«

»I am.«

»Oh yes.«

»How-«

»You've made me feel impossibly good about myself, which is a feat in itself because I know what I come across like. I know, okay, I _know_ because people have no time for animals-loving bloke whose only possession is a considerate bank account, and the fact that all the money there is inherited, doesn't help my image one bit, actually, and the other extension of my belongings is my motorbike that has an occasional cough of bad smoke. My brain is like a scrambled egg on the best of days, but you wanted to know about it, you asked for it, and you're still here and you're looking at me like-«

Merlin leaned in. »Like what?«

»Like. You know. That is. As if you _like_ what you see and hear and. It's not. I can't afford that.«

»Arthur.«

»I'm rather happy with my bank account and motorbike, okay?«

»Of course.«

»And then you make me feel as if I'm important enough to be turned into a story, written by yourself, and that's just not going to work, is it?«

»What's not going to work? And stop saying money and transportation is all you have, because that's not all you have. Far from it. You have a heart of gold that's so bloody sincere it's making this whole place brighter ever since you came in. I've been waiting for years to _want_ to write about something, Arthur.«

He pauses to take a breath, feeling as if he's just shared something profound, something there is no way he could take back even if he wanted to, and it's ridiculous, all of this is, least of all that they've barely met, but Merlin is looking at this brilliant man, sitting so close to him and he realizes he wants to say much more, but not finding the right words.

Arthur is gaping, stuck in the stillness between two breaths and two thoughts, his eyes burning into Merlin. He looks overwhelmed.

»I can't start missing you, Merlin,« he rasps, and makes a dash out the door, gathering his belongings in his arms as he goes.

 

Merlin doesn't feel so light-headed anymore when he follows him out, closing fast on Arthur's retreating steps. A new sense of urge settles in, something akin to craving and desperation and a really explicit dread of _don't go yet_ , which he must say out loud somehow, the words spilling out through his hypocrite of a mouth, and he stops. He stops because _Arthur_ stops, and whips around, standing in the middle of a narrow poorly-lit alley.

»I think I stayed longer than I should.«

Merlin, forsaking his inane talent of bullshitting his way through words for once, delivers despite himself.

»It wasn't nearly enough.«

It doesn't make much sense to him, admitting this, but Arthur has been making him thrum with barely-contained, slightly edgy electricity all evening, which is a bigger and stronger reaction he'd had to anything, or anyone else in his life and he'd really like to hold on to this hint of potential of _something_ for a bit longer.

»Why?«

»It was dark before.«

And just like that, the alley lamp, poor excuse for a public candelabra, started blinking, mimicking the staccato of Merlin's heartbeat. He didn't miss how ominous, whether good or bad, this seemed, but brushed it aside because Arthur just gave him one of those special, sweet, unguarded looks that hinted he's the good one here. The lamb.

Merlin snorted to himself. As far as _beauty and the beast_ situations went, he's never found himself in the role of the tantalizing seducer  - whether it was of mind or body he simply did not know, but he knew he craved Arthur more than he craved that elusive story that was his push out of here.

Arthur bit his bottom lip in what seemed like a poorly-executed attempt at hiding a delighted smile, and looked up at him.

»You calling me your light?«

Merlin's world – or maybe it was just the ground beneath his feet, but it was all the same because he felt like he stumbled and lost his footing, that's the extent of what being exposed to that saccharine man did to him – spun around him as he lunged forward, nearly blind, backing Arthur against the rough, dirt-smeared brick wall.

They were panting, or _he_ definitely was, when his sight zoomed in on the beautiful creature in front of him and he became aware of the dregs of air he was pulling in his lungs. It tasted a bit stale, no doubt curtsey of the pub's dumpster nearby, and it was damp, the humidity of the earlier rain shower not gone yet as the invisible mist of it made its way into their hair, curling Arthur's fringe on his forehead in a playful way.

Merlin is entranced by it, the blonde hair getting a darker shade of quality in the intervals when the streetlamp flickers off, and he wants to touch so badly, he wants to-

Arthur lets out a pained, throaty little noise which also sounds impatient and needy at the same time, and surges forward, breaching less than a foot of unoccupied space between them, and kisses him.

A new kind of wetness envelops Merlin's lips; it's not the muggy, clammy air anymore, it's much, much warmer moist and it tastes infinitely better, too. There's a hint of ale, but the richness of the yeast and barley is giving way to much more personal notes of Arthur's own flavour. Merlin thinks he can discern honey-like sweetness and a touch of something mischievously spicy like ginger, and it's such a representation of the man itself that Merlin kisses back unrelenting, feeling possessed and freed and _illuminated_.

He pulls back when his breath falls short, and rasps.

»Yes. My _light_.«

He doesn't wait for Arthur to respond, hell, he's pretty sure he didn't even give him enough time to recuperate, or have a breather, or decide if this was a brilliant or a daft move, because Merlin's decided it was definitely the worst idea he's ever had, but this doesn't make it any _less_ brilliant, and closed the distance between them again.

He's hungry, he wants that taste of frisky sugar back, it's _surreal_ how somebody so angelic-like can taste like sin; Merlin devours his mouth with demanding presses of lips and tongue in much the same way as his fingers dance on his old, beaten typewriter at home, coaxing out words and meanings – only that this time, Merlin's afraid to address the semantics of this, and it's certainly not _words_ that Arthur is breathing out into his mouth. The little pants are downright obscene, he wants to describe the delightful gasps and fails fantastically as Arthur once again manages to traipse on the edge between innocence and absolute filth, and Merlin- Merlin thinks he is so, so fucked.

He's not one for addictions; while an occasional cigarette and more than occasional beer do provide a fun distraction and lead him away from the dull noise of well-trodden routines in his life, he's fairly certain he could do without if need be, and wouldn't even feel all that badly bereft.

This, though.

The press of Arthur's warm body against him, trapping this man between the wall and himself, knowing Arthur's  back is going to pick up some of the dirt from the wall and feeling inexplicably content that he's going to mare and mark him in some way, curls something warm in his stomach as he keeps kissing and kissing him, feeling his lips pulse from sudden, excessive use and wonders if Arthur feels it too. He slows down the kiss, almost feels like he's hit the pause button, and just when he's fairly certain he's lulled Arthur into some false sense of safety, he bites down, teeth grazing the soft flesh, and revels in the sound Arthur emits. He takes odd pleasure in knowing that now the tingling in their lips matches for sure.

Arthur manages to sneak a tiny nibble of his own, which robs Merlin of his breath completely, and then leans back against the wall in a way that's so enticing Merlin's pretty sure all the exotic dancers and people dalying in the oldest profession in the world could learn a thing or two about. He's slouched back, but only with his upper body, his hips jutting out invitingly, and Merlin swallows, hard, because Arthur smiles back slowly, dazedly, the flush of his cheeks a a two-second blink of red as the lamp keeps its relentless beat of white flashes. Merlin's sure he's either about to become a victim of the impending epileptic shock, or has somehow become hypnotized by the constant flicker of light instead.

Arthur is watching him in earnest, as if contemplating something, and then his pink - _delicious, spiced honey-tasting -_  tongue  darts out and Arthur licks at his own lips, as if tasting the remains of Merlin there, as if he was also doing the strange mapping-out of the flavours and Merlin's mind reels, it reels because once again he can't quite make out the odd discrepancy between the _appetite_ he's oozing and the purity of his soft smile as he's watching Merlin with something akin to reverence.  Merlin feels it's terribly undeserved and is suddenly petrified Arthur will realize this too, sooner rather than later. And then he'll _leave_.

He's suddenly jolted back into the damp, barely-lit reality of no prospect, no entertainment, no _nothing_ , and remembers that Arthur was actually leaving right before all- _this_. He was about to go, quite willing, if Merlin recalled correctly, getting up from his bar stool and almost fleeing the pub as if it was some gory crime scene.

He didn't want him to leave. Obviously. The very thought of it caused mild panic, and the high-voltage of liquid, dancing nerves he's been experiencing all night nearly lashed out in a deadly storm of lightning, begging him to do something about it. He was afraid of his reactions, afraid of them because he did not understand – the man in front of him was still such an enigma, a conglomerate of traits and beliefs that by any right shouldn't merge together like this, and yet they formed a whole-ly delicious being that Merlin didn't know how to stay away from.

Arthur  is still a picture of utterly obscene invitation, and Merlin swallows around a lump,  trying to be subtle about it, but still shamelessly trailing, dragging, _sticking_ his eyes all over the body in front of him. There's no denying the beautiful build of the man, his broad shoulders and chest and muscular thighs, but Merlin's gaze is suddenly fixed on Arthur's crotch because there's a bulge there, an enticing stretch under the material of his jeans, and Merlin gasps, minutely, because he wants, he _wants_ , and he's filling up too.

He wants to drop on his knees and press his face there, and knows he wouldn't care for ruining his jeans like that. He wants to bite, over the layers of clothes, and he wants to mark wherever Arthur would let him; but at the same time he still thinks Arthur might spook, like a deer if Merlin makes a move, so he exhales, a tremble running through him as he manages to lift his eyes back up.

Arthur pushes off the wall and before Merlin has time to react, his lips are being taken again – quite viciously, with enough force to feel all the pulsing again, and yet it's sweet, so sweet he's melting, his nerve-ends uncurling and smoothing over, the breath hot and demanding and reassuring. Merlin's hands slide around Arthur's waist, dipping low beneath the hem and finding warm flesh there, squeezing at Arthur's ass as Arthur jolts forward into him, pressing close at all body points that _count_ , and for a moment they just stand there, aching groin to aching groin, panting in each other's mouths as sparks run up their bodies. Merlin pushes, his _hands_ push, and gathers him closer, already feeling dizzy with just the slightest bit of skin to skin touch, and digs his barely-existent nails in. 

A long, slow lick of warm tongue is swiped across his throat and up to his ear, where Arthur latches and sucks, teeth and lips doing some kind of magic and Merlin sways on the spot, holding them impossibly close, unable to prevent himself from thrusting in small, slow cants of his hips, and the hard slide of Arthur's cock, however clothed, against his the sweetest torture he's ever experienced.

He's suddenly afraid to go further, to touch more; he knows how close his fingers are, how easy it would be to join them in the middle; his fingertips ache with want of slowly teasing what's within reach, he only needs to part- Arthur moans into his ear, filthily, and continues his slow torment of tongue and teeth there, his lower body suspended in tiny, repeating movements of thrusting forward at  him and pressing back against Merlin's warm palms and fingers. Merlin can feel his heart hammering, he feels something beyond desire building up, something very akin to animalistic possession, he wants, yes, but he doesn't want just this _once_ – he wants Arthur like this, first. And then he wants to suck him off, alternation of fast and slow, while Arthur leans at the wall, and when they recover, he wants to fuck him right over that motorbike of his, slower now because the urgency would lessen, but still intense because it'd be their hot, hungry bodies pressing together, moving together, and into each other. And that's just the beginning.

Arthur will probably-most likely- _surely_ leave after this and Merlin, in all of the ridiculous lust-haze he's experiencing right now, knows, with a painful clarity of someone who's looking at himself through the wrong end of a magnifying lens, that this is not something he'll weather lightly. Not something he's okay with. Not something he wants to allow, regardless of what Arthur wants – which is a scary, scary thought. He moans as he's shaken out of this stupor by hands on his zipper, and the momentarily-placed fog inside his head lifts as he realized both of their jeans are now unzipped, and he's as much of a culprit in this as Arthur is, because they're hungrily pushing the clothes down, fingers stopping on naked hips, digging in and Merlin stares down at them, and chokes.

»Jesus Christ, Arthur.«

Arthur laughs, he _laughs_ , and they kiss. They kiss in a deserted, filthy alleyway with a blinking light and a stinking bin nearby, not at all hidden if anyone chooses to walk by, with their crotches on display and fingers pushing at hipbones and necks and wrenching themselves in shirts on their backs, and yet Merlin's sure he's never experienced anything more romantic in his life. He's not one for romance of any kind, and is sure he'll never be one for pathetic love declarations, but when Arthur nuzzles his neck at the same moment as their cocks rub together for the first time, the sensation is so much, too much, that Merlin shudders, and pushes Arthur away.

It's terrifying. He wanted _something_. He wanted a momentary distraction of a few hours' worth company. An easy companionship of drinking a few ales together. A story to write down. Not- not _this_. A head full of blonde puffy locks and insanely sweet and daring ideas, a body of some mythological god, and a touch that is pure addiction. Merlin pants, and shakes his head, aching all over, aching for something in his heart, and feeling the strain in his cock, still hard as a rock, pulsing, the phantom touch of Arthur's cock against him like a ghostly imprint of inane pleasure.

Arthur, now apparently acquainted with the wall behind him, slouches back, his face painted with confusion, but then it clears into careful neutrality. He's still just as much on display, vulnerable, and drops his eyes to where Merlin is exposed, and too caught up in the momentum of heat and a swirl of thoughts to cover himself up. Whatever hurt or indecision there must have been, it's gone now, because Arthur must see how much Merlin actually wants this, wants him, and he smiles, slowly, half-amused and half-daring, and wets his lips.

»Have it your way, then.«

It's a rasp, no more, but Merlin can feel it deep within, it thrums inside as if he was the one to say it. He doesn't have time to reply, and maybe it's for the best because he doesn't know what to say –

_I want you so bad, but then you'll leave?_

_Don't stop. Don't go._

_Fuck me, oh and here are the keys to my flat?_

Anything that could possibly come out, stills in his mouth, breath included, as Arthur brings his hand up, slides it across his hips, over his belly, down to his cock, and starts stroking himself. There in the blinking sickly-yellowish light, and humid air, he's bringing himself off as if he's in the privacy of his own bed, sure and relaxed and looking so god damn innocent, as if he doesn't know what this is doing to Merlin, that Merlin's eyes momentarily go _cross_ , and then in opposite directions, and then zoom back in on that hand - large, manly hand going up and down, slowly, up and down, a little faster, up, stopping, twisting at the highest point, and sliding back down. Merlin's own cock twitches painfully at the sight, and he moans, helplessly, and takes half a step forward.

Arthur grins, sly and wicked, and bends down as he slides his jeans all the way down below his knees, freeing his thighs. Merlin's head is swimming, brain a choppy slosh of cells shouting for survival and clinging to little floating debris of _this is so so bad_ , as his hand flies to his cock, holding at the base, wondering if he's really going to do this, wank in an alley, watching another bloke wank simultaneously, as Arthur looks up from his hunch. His gaze focuses on Merlin's hand and crotch and cock, and he smirks, and before Merlin thinks they are way too close, Arthur leans forward, licking over the head, his tongue a wet slide over the slit.

He straightens back up, resting against the wall, as Merlin tries to get that new sensation out of his head. It's the last threads of his sanity fraying, he's reluctant to let go because he might just snap; Arthur's a tease, but it's worse – he's a curious, gentle soul that finds something it likes and then it turns into this walking-talking sexy thing that's set on destroying Merlin's life, and Merlin doesn't want to lose it, he wants to remember this, he wants to cherish all that skin properly, not here, or like this, but it's all crumbling down, his resolve the first to go, as Arthur slowly turns, he _turns_ , his front to the wall now, with his golden, muscular ass sticking out from under his dark brown leather jacket, looking for all intentions and purposes like an art piece in gallery, only that the reality is much less sophisticated because he's looking back at Merlin over his shoulder, breath coming out in short pants now, a hint of uncertainty despite the ridiculously courageous display of nudity and vulnerability of his position.

Merlin swallows down something that would give whimpering a bad name, and he steps forward, too sure of this, so sure of it he's not sure of anything at all, of anything but the magnetic, sexual pull between them, inexplicable need to be together, as Arthur's eyes widen with something dark, no doubt a mirror image of Merlin's own pupils blown wide and feral.

He stops behind Arthur, and lowers his lips to his neck, taking time to suck at the skin, leaving a mark he'll later return to to intensify it. Arthur moans and bucks, his hands splayed wide on the brick wall he's pushed against. Merlin stills him with a hand on the hip, softly kneading the skin there, such an odd contrast to their ragged, fast breaths and bodies thrumming. Even what little there is of air between them, it is charged with _something_. Merlin trails the line between the mark and Arthur's ear with his tongue, loving the taste of the skin, the same spiced honey he's found inside Arthur's mouth, and whispers there, hotly,

»I don't want anyone else to have this.«

Arthur whines, and Merlin revels in the violent shudder he coaxes out of him, as he slides his right hand from Arthur's inner thigh up, up to the crack, and between his cheeks in a long, heavy swipe, until he rests it on his other hip, bracketing it. Arthur throws his head back, mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure, and Merlin grins triumphantly against his ear.

»Did you like that?«

The only reply he gets is a shaky nod, as Arthur's hand finds his wrist and he brings it up to his mouth, sucking onto his index finger for as long as Merlin can stand it without actually dying – or coming, whichever came sooner – on the spot.

When he gets his hand back, Merlin does it again.

His hand slides back down over Arthur's ass, returns to his starting point on his thigh where skin is soft and not too muscular, and trails his fingers up and up, sweeping over the balls, and the sensitive skin behind, and then slowly continues up, fingertips brushing in enticing circles over Arthur's entrance. He's getting off on the sounds Arthur makes, the poorly-concealed pleas and choked down groans as Merlin keeps his fingers on the most sensitive point, wavering right on the edge between teasing relentlessly and dipping a point in, and it's not until Arthur sobs out yes, please,   _please_ , that Merlin cranes his neck in a really unnatural way to kiss him again, as he slides in a finger, only half an inch deep.

Arthur convulses, and squeezes around him, and Merlin curses in his mind, he curses obscenely at imagining how it would feel to have Arthur squeezing around his cock like this, of being seated deeply inside, moving together, skin on skin and something soft underneath instead of a dirty wall, but he knows they don't have what they need here, and hates the fate and his life and universe in general a little bit for it.

Arthur's kisses are open-mouthed and heavily uncoordinated now, he kisses-bites back with short, pulled breaths and needy, keening sounds as Merlin's unable to stop, he wants to consume him entirely, kissing him and clutching at him with a vicious grip on Arthur's hip, no doubt leaving bruises there, his finger sliding slowly deeper, in and out now, no other purpose in his relentless rhythm as instant pleasure of the drag of skin, in and out, in and out, in and out, which seems to be exactly what Arthur wants and needs, writhing against him, and whenever his lungs allow it, exhaling a tiny _yes_.

Merlin's hand slides down from the hip, and over to Arthur's cock, squeezing and pumping, wondering how to maintain any kind of cadence with his left hand stroking Arthur tightly, and his right hand's index finger dipping in and out, but he must manage because Arthur is trembling, almost no sounds coming out now, his whole body taut and ready to snap. Merlin rests his face in the hair on the nape of Arthur's neck, inhaling the wetness, and the residual scent of some fruity shampoo, and Arthur's skin, and Merlin starts pressing forward, thrusting against Arthur's ass. He pulls his finger out and reaches around Arthur's waist, leaving his arm there, holding him close because that's where he needs him right now, and later, and always, his other hand bringing him off as Merlin rolls his hips in Arthur's endlessly, tirelessly, feeling a build up of insane energy that's been begging him for a release for the duration of this whole evening. He slides his cock up between Arthur's cheeks, his wet tip leaving sticky trail at the small of Arthur's back at every up-thrust, and then Merlin nips at the previously-sucked purplish mark on Arthur's neck, he nips and groans _If you think I'm done with you after this_ \- and bites down hard in another deep, bruising suck, as Arthur whines in a low, long shattering breath, and starts coming, streaking the wall with come.

Merlin is aware of it in a haze of utter, all-consuming pleasure, mesmerized and charmed how _beautiful_ Arthur looks while coming, and brings him off through it until Arthur whimpers, and tries to make him stop, and then manages to turn around in Merlin's vice-like grip. Merlin blinks at him a tad stupidly, realizing how intimately he's holding him, and then shivers all over as Arthur's hand closes around his cock, firmly but gently, almost lovingly, with reverence, and finishes Merlin's stroking for him. He doesn't want it to end yet, he really doesn't and he could maybe prolong this if he really put his mind to it and started enumerating all the streets and alleyways, courtesy to James Joyce and his fixation with Dublin, in alphabetical order, and thinks it's not such a bad idea at all, when Arthur's other hand cups his face, lifts it up from his shoulder, and then he starts kissing him in earnest, sweetly, maddeningly slowly and sensually and his hand twists around the head of Merlin's cock.

The kiss is what does Merlin in, it slows down his mind and makes him feel things, the caressing of lips and the tight squeeze of hand, and moans into Arthur's mouth, moans god knows what, probably a name of some street for real, actually, and then comes as Arthur holds him up and sees him through it.

He's not sure how long they stand there, half naked, embracing and lightly swaying on the spot next to a come-painted wall and parked motorbike and half-full dumpsters, but it's for the second time that evening that Merlin feels the surroundings oddly romantic, no doubt due to whom he's actually holding right now. Arthur is nuzzling his neck, his cheeky lust gone, gone completely, replaced by sickeningly lovely pillow-talk moves of his lips across Merlin's skin and low, content humming escaping his throat. Merlin stares at the sight in his arms, he stares down feeling captivated, enthralled, sated, _happy_ – and then Arthur looks up and smiles.

And Merlin packs up all the previously used adjectives, along with his last shreds of wits, and sends them overseas on a cargo-carrier to some third world country where people can feast on his bubbling emotions and last of his brain cells, because he's not sure he's going to need them anymore.

»Merlin.«

»Yes?« His tone is cautious, uncertain, _dumb_ even, but it need not be because Arthur only grins wider –

»Are you going to include this in your story too?«

The inquiry is so sweet, and there it is again, the silver lining of the evening, Arthur's sweetness, and he can't quite believe somebody like him still exists in this wealth-ridden, filthy world of consumerism and struggle for all things material rather than all things lovely. And Arthur is the _epitome_ of lovely.

He might say it out loud, he thinks, because Arthur's eyes shine, and he places a warm, soft kiss to his mouth before he rights their clothes, and Merlin just stands there, hopelessly, helplessly, trying to wrap his mind around the little miracle that is Arthur Pendragon, as Arthur does one more little surprise in his line of _everything unbelievable_.

He takes a hold of Merlin's hand, and takes him to the motorbike, where a helmet rests. He takes it, and puts it on, lifting the visor and though it covers his mouth, Merlin can hear him clearly –

»Come with me?«

He pulls up the seat and retrieves another helmet from there, and holds it out, expectantly.

»Where to?«

Merlin takes the helmet, and tries it on, because he's never wore a helmet before and he's curious, you see, it's because he wants to know the feeling, because- because-

Arthur slides his visor up, too, and shrugs, his head cocked to the side.

»Anywhere?«

The question is hardly there, it's more of a statement, as if he doesn't doubt it, doubt _this_ , and the sheer sincerity nearly knocks Merlin off his feet. He thinks of the ale downstairs he'll never finish, and his dingy flat he hates. He thinks how the only thing he wants to take from there is his typewriter, and maybe a couple of condoms – he thinks Arthur is right, _anywhere is okay_ , and just as promising as a definite, specific place, because for Merlin, that place seems to be Arthur.

»I wouldn't let Peter ride my bike,« Arthur adds as an afterthought, and grins openly, happily, producing a bit of his own light again.

Merlin swallows hard, feeling certain sense of awe that's quite new to him, and takes a step forward.

»Yeah okay,« he nods softly, hoping his admission is enough, fooling neither himself or Arthur that this is exactly what he wants, and the sight of Arthur's high-grinning cheeks around all the foam inside the helmet is still embedded in Merlin's vision when they fly down the motorway, whooping with joy and something that feels larger than life itself.

The first bigger city they stop in, they get matching butterfly tattoos, giggling like schoolgirls and trading kisses as the tattoo artist shoos them out with a discount and a smirk to high-heavens.


End file.
